


like a prayer for which no words exist

by hubrisandwax



Series: Shameless episode codas [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (ian uses it and mickey denies it), 5x09 coda, 5x09 fix-it fic, Ableist Language, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Discussions of mental illness, M/M, Panic, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5x09; Ian and Mickey leave the clinic. They have a conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a prayer for which no words exist

**Author's Note:**

> i was immensely frustrated by the lack of meaningful/significant (and arguably very important) interaction between Ian and Mickey in ep 5x09, so i decided to write a fix-it fic. hopefully it's mostly accurate to the situation (whilst i've had mental illness diagnoses delivered to me, both about myself and people close to me, and have a lot of experience with mental illness generally, i only have secondary experience with bipolar). let me know if it's not and i'll happily change anything that's incorrect - i tried to write it with sensitivity in mind. i used the stills from the cut scene outside the clinic as inspiration. thank you so much for reading!

It’s cold.

That’s your first thought as you step outside, Mickey trailing behind you, and you pull your coat further around your shoulders. It’s an easy thought. Physical. The sensation is almost grounding.

Mostly you want to go for a run, to pull yourself from your head, to properly anchor yourself, because you don’t want to think right now. You don’t even want to look at Mickey. It’s too much – too overwhelming. This is permanent – you knew that, you always knew that; you grew up, in part, with Monica – and now Mickey’s heard it too, it’s all too real. You’re no longer sedated. You’re no longer drifting in and out. You no longer really understand anything. It’s too much. You’re too much.

Panic claws its way up your chest, seizing your throat, and you try to swallow. To breathe. In, out, in, tiny clouds collecting and dissipating in front of your mouth. Your skin feels hot; your scalp crawls. You feel trapped by your own skin.

“Yo, Ian,” Mickey says, somewhere behind you, and you wonder irrationally why he’s still here. “Ian. Wait up.”

You don’t want to stop moving. You’re worried you’re going to cry. You walk forward, gradually quickening your pace. Mickey’s strides turn into a jog behind you, the sound of his rubber soles echoing around the empty car park. He grabs at your neck, fingers grazing the bolt of your jaw like this morning, like he’s trying to reassure you, and he tries to pull you around to face him.

“Ian. Fucking stop,” Mickey says, but he doesn’t sound angry. His voice is soft, gentle, like he’s scared. Why should he be scared? You’re the one who’s fucking crazy, who’ll be doped out of his mind for the next goddamn forty years, who-

Mickey tugs you around and pulls you into his body immediately, no hesitation, his face pressing itself in the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. He kisses the skin there, lightly, lightly, hands working their way into your hair. Your arms jerk up and instinctually wrap around his waist. He pulls away, only to tug your face around and press his mouth against yours. It’s chaste - a graze of lip on lip. There’s no intention. He’s trying to show you he cares. 

It’s big, for him, even this small public display of affection in an open environment. He’s seeking comfort, too, you realise. In you. He’s probably been fucking terrified this entire time, since he found you in that club, since you didn’t get out of bed, since you took Yevgeny.

It hits you like a sucker punch to the gut, sometimes, just how much he cares about you. You want to be angry; you want to yell to scream, to punch something. Yet you can’t with Mickey here, who’s trying so hard _for_ you. You stop trying to run way.

Mickey takes a step away from you, says, “How you feelin’, man?” and takes your hand, his voice rough. It’s a loaded question; you both know that. You appreciate the physical space and the fact that he’s still trying to ground you. You like that he’s trying to respect your boundaries. 

You’re not really sure how to answer, though.

You try anyway.

You clear your throat, but it still feels like something’s stuck in your oesophagus. You swallow. “I’m not Monica,” is the first thing that you manage to force out of your mouth, and it surprises you. It’s angry. You still can’t look Mickey in the eye. Instead you drop to the pavement, arranging your long limbs until you’re sitting on the edge of the gutter with your legs drawn to your chest, your hand still wrapped in Mickey’s. Mickey shifts above you before he eases his own body into a sitting position beside yours.

After a beat, Mickey says, “Nah, not at all.” Like he knows Monica, what she put her kids through. You watch from your periphery as he looks up at the sky before gazing back down at your entwined hands. “You’re fifty per cent whoeverthefuck too, right? No matter what the Brady Bunch says, you’re yourself. You’re Ian Gallagher. You love your family. You’re gonna fucking take your meds if it’s the last thing you do. You’re not your mom, Ian.”

He’s the first person who’s said it since this whole disaster began – that despite everything, even the diagnosis, you’re not your mother. You manage a small smile at that, even if it feels forced, even if Mickey’s saying it just to placate you. It matters that he says it anyway. Mickey’s never been great at candid emotion – he complains loudly and often whenever you brings up feelings, saying that life isn’t a “fucking chick-flick” or “after school special” - but you appreciate how hard he’s trying. It’s working, just a little. You feel marginally better as you look across the parking lot, thoughts drifting, until you manage, slowly, to pull them into linear streams. You’re not Monica. You can’t be.

“I’m scared, Mick,” you say after a few minutes, quietly, looking anywhere but his eyes, your own gaze fixating on the healing wound on his cheek. It takes a lot for you to admit it. You’ve been scared since you woke up drugged in the hospital, really, but Mickey probably knows that. You can’t hide much from him, these days; he knows you far too well, in a way that makes you feel open and exposed – _vulnerable_ \- but still safe.

You’re scared of what it _means_. You’re scared of the hurt you’ve already caused, particularly to your family. Of the hurt you might cause later. Scared of how it will affect your relationship with Mickey, as well as Fiona, Lip, Liam, Debbie, Carl, and Mandy. Scared of the drugs. Scared of how the diagnosis will change your future. Scared of the diagnosis itself. Scared of fucking _everything._  

In the silence, you hunch your shoulders even further, pulling your body as far into itself as you can possibly manage. You feel like you’re taking up so much space with everything else that the least you can do is minimise the physical impact your body has on the world. You’re struggling to even think, your thoughts as wispy and intangible as your breath on the air, whilst the process itself is slowed to a crawl, treacle-thick.

Mickey’s quiet for a time. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and offers one to you. You take it, balancing it between your fingers, watching the embers slowly creep further along with each drag you take, the paper disappearing, a bit like you feel you are.

“I’m fucking scared, too,” Mickey says. Doubt creeps into your mind again at that, and you’re reminded again that he doesn’t have to be here. He can leave at any time. Almost did, if the strong smell of alcohol that lingered around him when he crawled into your bed a few nights ago, saying, “sorry I’m late,” was any indication. But you don’t begrudge him anything, not really. Those three words, the way he stroked your face, the fact he came back at all, said everything. _He's got me_  were his words in the clinic. Sure, you’re angry, though, but not at him. You’re angry at the diagnosis. At your illness. At yourself.

You wonder idly whether, if your situations were reversed, you’d be here for Mickey.

You have your answer before the question is even fully formed in your mind. Of course would. You trust Mickey with the same.

Mickey draws in another breath. Your own breathing is weak, shallow, shuddery. You’re only just managing to fight that all-consuming panic. Mickey’s grip on your hand tightens, like his grip on your heart. “Fuck, Ian. We’ve been through so much shit, right.” He dips his head until he forces you to look at his eyes. “Not gonna let something like this fuck us up. We’ll fucking fight it.” His mouth is a hard line, now. He’s angry, but his anger isn’t directed at anything, not really, his last word more a rough exhalation of air than something properly formed. “Together.”

You shift uncomfortably. “Are you-"

“No,” Mickey says forcefully. “Don’t even fucking ask me if I’m sure, man.” He sighs irritably before his voice softens, like he’s muttering to himself: “So fucking dumb for someone so smart.”

“Thank you,” you say, relief colouring your tone, and it’s the only thing you can think to say, right now. Mickey grunts. The edge of his mouth quirks up a little as he throws you a tiny smile. He moves a little, releasing your fingers, and works his hand into your hair. Apparently he has a fixation with your hair as well as the nape of your neck; he can never seem to stop running his fingers over it, through it. It’s comforting.

You realise suddenly that his new position means that the bottles of pills in Mickey’s jacket pocket are digging into your thigh. You feel nauseous again. 

“I’m sorry for not-" the syllables trip over your tongue and you choke on the words. You swallow and try to focus on what you have to say. “Now I know there’s something wrong with me, I’m sorry I didn’t…” You can’t finish. Mickey kisses your temple. It feels something like forgiveness.

“I get it,” Mickey says. “Just glad you decided to finally go to the clinic. I’m proud.”

“Even though it confirms I’m crazy?” _Broken_ , you think.

“Fuck, Ian. You’re not crazy. You’re okay. We’ll be okay. Shit.” He takes another drag on his cigarette, breathes the smoke out through his nose. His hand is shaking, just a little. “Don’t think like that. Never fucking think like that. Crazy my fucking ass; you’re just sick. We’ll get you better.” He’s trying to convince himself of that last sentence as much as he’s trying to convince you, but you know that under everything, he believes the sentiment anyway.

Eventually Mickey says, voice half filled with awe, "You know when you tried to beat Terry up after I came out, even though it was two against one?" You nod. "It's like that, but now we're two against one, and this thing's what we gotta beat. That's not even my only example. You're the bravest person I know, fuckhead. The strongest. If anyone can hold their shit together, hold out against this thing, it's you." He won’t look at you. Drawing on his cigarette, he squeezes the back of your neck.

You want to say I love you, then. I love you; thank you for believing in me even when I can’t believe in myself. It would be too much, though, on top of everything, so instead you exhale slowly, relaxing slightly against Mickey’s steady, warm weight as he pulls out another cigarette. You do love him. Love isn’t magic, though. It’s not over, it’s not okay – it’s only just begun, really, and you’re still so frightened. You both are. And you still have a lot to talk about, research to do, shit to figure out.

But you’re trying. Together.

You hope it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from [_You Are Jeff_](http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/18/7/) by Richard Siken.
> 
> i exist on tumblr [here](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com). fic is [here](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/post/113913047420/ian-x-mickey-5x09-coda-ao3-its-cold-thats)


End file.
